Staring at a Supernova
by ChimeraDragon
Summary: John gets an unusual visitor after Sherlock's death. What could it mean? Post Reinbach.


Title: Staring at a Supernova

Author: Chimera Dragon

Warnings: Post "Reinbach"

Pairings: Johnlock

"I can't take much more if this," John said softly to the skull on the mantle. He leaned heavily on the cane under his hand but refused to sit just yet. The pain made his mind blank for a while. "He would find it ironic I need the cane now. But not for too much longer..."

"John, dear?" Mrs. Hudson called softly from the door. She had a plate in her hand and a worried look in her eyes.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John replied as he tried to give her a reassuring smile. He limped over to the table in the kitchen and cleared a space off.

"It's looking better. More organized," Mrs. Hudson said looking around thoughtfully.

"I've been going through a few of ... of his ... things," John replied as he choked back his feelings and tried to keep from letting them overwhelm him. "I have a box of donations if you wouldn't mind helping me get them down the stairs. Has Mycroft paid the rent again?"

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson replied trying to look innocent as she played with her hair.

"What?" John asked with a long suffering sigh.

"It nothing. Just ... He paid the rent for the next five years. Your share and ... Sherlock's."

John closed his eyes tightly against the burning sensation behind his eyelids. He took several shuddering breaths and nodded.

"You gonna be alright, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked kindly as she laid a frail hand on John's shoulder.

John shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

"Well, if you need anything, you just let me know..." she paused at the sound of the buzzer cut through. "Well, now who could that be?"

"I don't know. I'm not expecting anyone."

"I'll go and check. You rest your leg. It looks like it's bothering you today," Mrs. Hudson said with another pat on John's shoulder before puttering off downstairs to answer the door.

John walked over to his favorite chair an sat down before he let his head loll back on the chair. The sound of Mrs. Hudson's muffled voice floated up the stairs.

"He's right up here," her voice came through the open door. Two sets of footsteps made their way up the stairs.

John looked over to the door expecting to see Greg, or Molly, or possibly Mycroft. Instead a strange man with mousy brown hair and dull brown eyes was standing in the doorway behind Mrs. Hudson.

"Doctor John H. Watson?" the man asked. His voice was low and unassuming. John gave the man a once over before looking away. He noted the rumpled clothing, the tiredness in the man's eyes, and a stain on his shirt.

"Professor or Librarian?" John asked in a bored tone as he went back to staring blankly out the window. "And just so you know.. Don't do consulting at this residence anymore."

The man looked shocked for a moment before managing to regain his composure. "How did you know I was coming? Did on of my colleagues tell you?"

John laughed; a sad and hollow sound, as he shook his head. "No. I read it in your clothes and your face and your timing."

"No one can do that..." the man protested weakly.

"Sherlock could," John countered, voice hollow. "And he taught me how to do it too. Mind, I'll never be as good as he was... But you cam for a reason?"

"I am Doctor Hans Vanstock. I work for a psychiatric ward in Germany. We have a patient..." the man began. His accent was light but noticeable.

"And? Why did you come all the way to London?" John asked with a raised eyebrow. "I'm just a regular doctor. Nothing special."

"It's the patient," Hans said. "He does not speak. He rarely eats. And only writes one thing." The man dug into his pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper with messy, scrawled handwriting all over it. 'Dr. John H. Watson. 221b Baker St. London.'

"Why would someone in your ward be writing my name and address?" John asked, perplexed.

"I have no idea. But he is getting worse. He has recently stopped eating and sleeping. We are lucky to get him to drink. We have been giving him protein shakes to keep him alive," Hans said. "We are hoping you will be able to help us figure out what is wrong with him and perhaps get him eating again."

John's brow furrowed in thought. "It's rather expensive to get a ticket to Germany..."

"Worry not! I have a ticket for you. I bought it hoping you would accompany me back. If you truly existed," Vanstock said as he brandished the ticket. "I can tell you about the patient on the way. Perhaps you can figure out what is wrong with him."

"Are we flying or going by train?" John asked as he made up his mind.

"Flying. It will be much faster," Vanstock said with a nod. He smiled in relief as a smile broke out over his face.

John shrugged as he stood. "I have nothing going on right now. I had to take some time off from the hospital."

"Recent injury?" Vanstock asked as he noticed the cane.

"About two month old. But I shouldn't have the cane for much longer," John replied. "Give me a few moments and I'll be ready to go. Mrs. Hudson, would you mind watching the flat while I'm gone?"

She shook her head. "Not a problem dear! It's good to see you getting out."

"Thank you," John said before he walked into his room and quickly packed an overnight bag. He wales back into the sitting room a few minutes later. "Alright, let's be off."

"Ready so soon?" Vanstock said, surprise clearly evident on his face.

John shrugged. "I'm usually prepared for the possibility. You never know. So, shall we be off?"

"We shall," Vanstock replied a he led the way out of the flat. John followed right on his heels.

A cab pulled up and the two got in and Vanstock gave the cabbie directions before settling back in the seats comfortably.

"So, tell me about where we're goon," John said conversationally.

"It is a very good institute. We have been around for over a century," Vanstock replied proudly. "We look into new and old methods to help or patients. We have always tried to stay away from the more ... barbaric practices that were used in the early days of psychotherapy."

John listened patiently, watching the other man's hands move as he talked and tucked the information away.

Vanstock watched John in return, giving pauses in case he had questions.

"But this particular patient has responded to nothing. He was pulled from the river near the facility. He was dressed in tattered clothing. Lips blue from hypothermia. Malnourished and severely underweight. He had no identification on him. So, we brought him in and stabilized him so we could get him to the nearest hospital. They got his weight up a little, but could find no information on him."

"So how did he end up back at your facility?" John asked, curious now.

"That's just it," Vanstock replied. "When he was released from the hospital he didn't leave. Hung around like a wraith. Spoke to no one. So they called us after a few says to sort him out. He key us guide him into a cab and he stays on the grounds. We named him Yohan because it was the only name we found he even vaguely responded to. He seems to like music, but never seeks it out. We don't know what to make of him. He won't let us give him a shave or a haircut, so he looks a little rough and wild."

"What do you mean? He seems to like music," John asked.

"As I said, he responds to almost nothing. But classical music makes him pause and turn towards it. That's it."

"Alright," John said with a nod as he turned to process the information.

Several hours later in the German countryside ...

"How much longer?" John asked as he looked out the window off the car they were traveling in.

"Another few minutes, when we turn around the next bend you should be able to see the Stockhelm Institute," Vanstock replied with a smile.

"You genuinely like your job, I take it," John asked as he watched the other man's face light up.

"The Stockhelm Institute has been in my family for three generations. We have staff that has been with us for that long as well. We treat everyone like family. From new patients to old. No one is treated like an outsider. And we miss those that get better and are able to leave, but we count those as the luckiest among our patients. Some of then even visit during holidays," Vanstock sighed wistfully.

John couldn't help but smile at the genuine happiness in the other doctor's face. "That's good to hear."

The car turned a corner and the trees that had been obscuring their view parted to show off a large building that had to be at least five stories tall with several smaller buildings surrounding it. There were smaller trees dotting the open landscape with benches and pools as well. There were nurses walking with patients, gardeners, and other; less identifiable people, wandering the grounds. The main building was an off white color with blue trim. One of the outlying building was green, another was blue, and a third was a lavender color.

"It's amazing!" John breathe as he took it all in.

"Thank you," Vanstock replied. "We try to keep everyone happy. From patients to staff. It helps with the healing process. Many patients are charity and others have family that pays to keep up the facility. And some of our patients work to pay their way. Repetitive labor helps some with OCD concentrate."

"Really?" John asked.

"Well, actually, there are quite a few disorders that find comfort in repetition. And some patients help with the lawns and gardens. Others help with food. As I said. It is like a family here."

"Absolutely amazing," John said again a he tried to see everything at once.

"Thank you," Vanstock beamed happily.

"So what kinds of things do you make to sell?"

"Flower arrangements. We have some if the mist beautiful roses. Blankets and custom clothing, mostly. Sometimes we have a patient that paints or sculpts but it is rare for their work to sell until after they pass. They usually can not let got of it. But we are here an it is time to meet the patient you have been brought here for!"

John nodded and followed Vanstock out of the car with his bag over one shoulder. He gripped his cane loosely and followed.

"Is your leg bothering you?" Vanstock asked, worry clearly evident on his face.

"A bit, bit nothing to worry about. It's almost healed," John replied as they continued on their way. Vanstock led the way into the main building and turned to head up the stairs.

"Yohan is on the fifth floor, but we have no elevator yet. Will that be a problem?"

"None at all," John replied as he headed for the stairs. "I'll just be a little bit slow."

"Good man," Vanstock replied as he led the way. He stopped at the landing of each floor to let John catch up and rest a moment before continuing onward.

"And here we have non-violent patients. Most of them are likely to be here long term, though we have had a dew cases that did get to leave. They are few and far between, sadly," Vanstock said with a wistful sigh.

"Do all of the patients get their own room?" John asked as he noticed a name by each door.

"On this floor they do. Others they share with a room mate, and in the children's ward it is a group setting. Yohan is at the end of the hall. H has a window facing over the courtyard. Seems to soothe him. As much as we can tell with him. He is very difficult to read."

"Well, hopefully we'll both get some answers today," John replied as he thought over the scattered information he'd been given about this 'Yohan' patient. He shook his head as nothing was apparently obvious.

"Here we are, Yohan's room," Vanstock said. The soft sound if violins floated through the partially cracked door. A fairly thin man faced away from the door, swaying gently to the music. He had long, curly hair that was pulled back into a loose ponytail at the base of his neck. He turned slightly at the sound of John's cane. His head tilted slightly.

"He almost never responds to the sound if anyone entering his room," Vanstock said with surprise clearly evident in his voice. "You should say something..."

John looked over, surprise by the other man's enthusiasm. He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Um, hello. I'm Doctor John Watson. Heard you've been writing my name and address?"

'Yohan' turned, and all he'll broke loose.

TBC ...


End file.
